A woman's claws
by Argentine Rose
Summary: Post Gorbeau and an exasperated (and slightly OOC) Javert strikes a bargain with Eponine. Unfinished. Rated because Eponine has a dirty mouth.
1. Default Chapter

Sometimes you just know it's going to be a bad day. You wake up and it's raining or you have a headache, you catch a mouse getting too well acquainted with what was to be your breakfast or you can only find one clean stocking despite the fact that the laundress definitely returned them in pairs (Why does this happen and why does it always happen to you? unanswerable questions both). One petty annoyance and a cold dread covers on your heart. You feel that the rest of the day is spoilt and, not wishing to disappoint, it confirms you expectations by being diabolical.

But these aren't the worst kind of days. Shit they may be, but at least they are consistently shit and 'to be forewarned is to be forearmed' as I tell my men. No, the kind of days I really object to are days like today that lull you into a false sense of security by not revealing their full unrestrained awfulness until later, thus taking you quite off balance.

Today has been a real deceitful, deceptive bitch of a Monsieur Madeleine of a day. A proper wolf in sheep's clothing.

The morning passed entirely without incident. I caught up on my paperwork, ate lunch at lunchtime. The stoves were working so I even had the luxury of being able to stand around with my coat-tails up trying to get really warm (only singing my coat once, I might add!)

At around one I was interrupted by some species of young man who 'wished to report a crime to the Superintendent of Police'. Since M le Commisaire is abed with a rheumatic fever, the boy got me instead. He was one of those insufferable young pups to who nature has given the beauty proper to a woman without endowing them with the proportionate amount of brains, and I dare say that if I'd had to put up with him for very long he would have thoroughly exasperated me. As it was he didn't stay long, was only marginally more stupid that the majority of people I have to put up with and considerable more willing to be helpful than your average Jacques.

The crime he came in to report was also extremely interesting, finally presenting me with an opportunity to pocket a goodly proportion of Patron-Minette.

So far, so good. That evening I posted my men and set off to find the two Jondrette girls. The younger I found easily (named Azelma – what goes through the minds of some parents is beyond me) I escorted her to one of the three fiacres we had on hand and, to be honest, the girl looked more relieved than anything else – it being now cold and snowing heavily. The elder girl, however, proved impossible to locate. When question, her sister said that's she'd probably run off with Montparnasse to have some fun (I can't say I blame her – Crime in the snow or mere immorality in the warmth? Tough call). Although not in itself disastrous – the girl was pretty insignificant and the 'devil's playmate' will always resurface when he needs more curl-papers - this was the first inkling that I was not to have things all my own way

So I waited for the signal that I had arranged with the young lawyer. And I waited. It didn't come. Finally I decided that I had better things to do with my life than stand around the Barriere des Gobelins waiting for my nose to turn blue and drop off so I told the lads that we were going in signal or no signal.  
Upstairs was a real high society party, full of the _bon ton_. As I looked around the little hornet's nest I had uncovered I couldn't help but grin. It got even funnier when I realised that I'd caught them in the act of drawing lots for who got to climb out the window first! (If the general public only knew the mental capacity of you average Parisian crim!) Needless to say, they were rather surprised to see me. Myself, I was in the mood for a bid of theatre and decided to play up to the gallery. It was all rather fun – even being shot at and pelted with paving stones couldn't wipe the smile off my mug. Classic example of pride before a fall that was (I believe the literary term is 'hubris'). I sat down to write the preliminary sentences of my report, called forward the victim only to find that _he had climbed out the window when no one was looking!_ Well, I think I can be forgiven for not seeing that one coming. I mean, what's the logic behind that? Who does such a thing? I'll tell you who does such a thing Javert, mon gaillaird! Someone with something to hide, that's who. It occurred to me that the chap who'd just shimmied out the window was probably worth more than all the sorry lot I had cuffed inside the Gorbeau property put together.

So far, so irritating, but this was not to be the last of my misfortunes. Somewhere between the tenement and La Force we managed to mislay Claquesous. Or, rather, _Claquesous managed to be mislaid,_ for I am perfectly convinced that the man is a double agent. I wager he's up at Judee now, cosying up to old Coco and laughing at me over tea and toast! But I'm not even going to allow myself to get started on that subject – it's enough to give an honest agent a fit of apoplexy! A most provoking end to a provoking evening.

Although, perhaps, I am overreacting somewhat. After all, there's nothing entirely unusual in not arresting the victim and if Pretty Boy and The Invisible Man managed to slip their moorings at least the rest of the crew are safely stowed in La Force.

I finish writing my preliminary report, sign and blot it and set it to one side. Then I trim the candle, which is starting to spit, and write this note for my own private reference.

Azelma – apprehended, Madelonettes

Babet - apprehended, La force

Bigrenaille – apprehended, La Force, to be accorded tobacco in solitary (I must be going soft in my old age)

Boulatruelle – apprehended, La Force

Brujon – apprehended, La Force, Strongly advise he be deloused.

Claquesous, Apprehended, escaped whilst being conveyed to prison. Suspect was aided – most odd (? Coco-Lacour)

Deux-Millards – apprehended, La Force.

Eponine – not found, search later.

Guelemer – apprehended, La Force

Jondrette – apprehended, La Force

Mme Jondrette – apprehended, Madelonettes

Montparnesse – not found, will doubtless turn up.

Victim – escaped, fisher than a pot of bouillabaisse, search vigorously.

Lawyer (name? Nonmercy? Bonpercy? Montmorency?) - Call on tomorrow

Sergeant Rougemont is trying to creep into the office without my noticing. Why does he bother? My desk is directly opposite the door – how can I not notice him? He must have been sent in for a dossier (despite the fact that my office is the size of a generously proportioned hatbox it still seems to serve as I kind of paperwork graveyard). I'll bet Jolivet sent him in – Minot's too kind and Pontellier would just come himself. I decide to have a bit of fun with the boy so I pretend not to notice him until he has come far enough into the room to make tactical retreat impossible, then look up and fix him with my most baleful of baleful stares.

"What exactly are you doing, Sergeant?"

"L – l – looking for the Molly Baker dossier, Inspector. L-Lieutenant Jolivet wants it."

I let him look for the thing under 'b' for a while before rolling my eyes and telling him; "Molly Baker is filed under 'Miss'; Sergeant."

"Of course, Sir."

He goes to 'm', which means getting right in behind my chair. Next thing I know he's managed to knock about seven files off the shelf and onto my head.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at, boy?" I shout, no longer in jest.

Rougemont cowers and I relent somewhat. After all, it probable wouldn't have happened if I hadn't wound him up so much. And this, my children, is why we must beware of guilty pleasures. And yet life offers me so few – I don't get drunk or smoke, I'm not a gourmand, I don't gamble, I haven't been to the theatre these past two years, men don't interest me and I avoid women (In that context – it's not as if I jump into a cupboard every time I see a woman, which would perhaps be a little odd). I have few friends and those I do have I hardly ever see, partly because I'm always at work, partly because they always seem bust – Charles is either abroad or hiding from a suspicious husband and, now Nana's married, I don't even get the satisfaction of a good argument.

Ah, and now I'm getting maudlin – that's always a sign that I'm overtired. Stifling a yawn I step out from behind the desk and pick up my hat.

"You going out, Monsieur L'inspecteur?"

"Indeed, I am going home – to sleep. Goodnight, Sergeant"

The poor boy (on a double shift) gives me a look of the profoundest envy as I slip out the door.

Oddly, however, I do not go home. I get halfway and then, on impulse, turn and head for the Barriere des Goblelins and the Gorbeau property. I still have the lawyer's key in my pocket and so am able to let myself in. I go up to the room at the end of the corridor and sit in the dark, unsure as to quite why I'm there or what I'm looking for. Still, I trust my instinct, which assures me that this is an entirely reasonable and profitable course of action.

A/N I have removed the repeated usage of the word 'crap'. In my head Javert was using the French word 'Chier' which does translate, literally, as 'crap'. I have made the change because a) On reflection it does sound just that bit too anachronistic in English and b) Chier has a bit more shock value in French so I though to myself (as someone - was it AmZ? – has Javert remark to Fantine) 'Don't be coy you silly tart' just say 'shit' and have done. I don't feel this to be quite so anachronistic since I'm sure 'Le mot de Cambronne' would be one near and dear to Javert's heart


	2. Chapter 2

A/N More authorial changes "groans from readers" tsk tsk, it for your benefit! A couple of people have mentioned that they find the accent confusing. It didn't occur to me that people would simply because I know people who do talk quite like this. However, if even the redoubtable AmZ can be thrown off the scent then something needs to be changed!

So, I'm going to make the accent an optional extra. For the puposes of with I present ARGENTINE'S PATENTED MOCKNEY PRONOUNCIATION MASTERCLASS!!

The rules are thus;

Miss the 'h' off the beginning of words, except where a liason is necessary for fluid pronounciation (French speakers will know what I mean.)

'th' is hardly ever pronounced as such – It can be 'f' (as in 'nuffing'), 'v' (as in 'wevver') or sometime 'd' but that is largely due to Carribean influence

The dipthong 'ow' is pronounced 'ah' (think Eliza Doolittle)

A 't' or double t in the middle of a word is not usually pronounced. Thus 'butter' becomes 'bu'er'

Feel free to miss the last letter off words ending in 'ing' or 'nt' if you really can't be bothered to pronounce them.

Right. Montparnasse is asleep so I'm off. He hates it when I do that but what do I care? What do I want to stay for? It's the same ev'ry time – if I've got somewhere else to sleep I go. Soon as he's snoring I pick up my minging bloody shoes and creep downstairs. I hate these shoes – so bloody big I can't even walk downstairs in 'em cos they make so much noise! In the doorway I tie the shit-squashers on and step out into the snow. I hate snow – Pantin is nasty in a white shirt – and if there's one thing I hate more than snow it's rain. It's raining now. Y'know the soft, misty kinda rain that still manages to soak ya through? That kinda rain. Brumaire? Phah! Ev'ry fucking month's Brumaire# far as I can tell!

I'm hungry too. 'Course, there's nothing unusual in that, but it's that certain kind of hunger. The 'munchies' if you see what I mean. 'Parnasse really wears me out and I just weren't in the mood tonight. I keep thinking bout – well, lest's just say my mind's elsewhere.

Cha, girl! You must be touched. Boy like 'Parnasse and you're still not happy! Dont' get me wrong – Montparnasse is a nice lad. He's handsome, wears nice clothes (even if he did half inch 'em). Only one thing wrong with him – he's not Marius. There's no-one like Marius . . .

You're dreamig girl. Not gonna happen, not a con's chance in Rochefort, I'll tell ya that for nothing. 'Specially now he's seen that fancy bird that came round today – she was well fit. Whereas you, my dear 'Ponine, are butters, feral, ugly.

Oh for fuck's sake! I hate these fucking shoes! Take my mind off where I'm putting my feet for one minutes and next thing I know I'm sprawled face down in the mud. I take the shoes off and chuck 'em as far down the road as I can. Something yowls – maybe I hit a cat.

After all, if dad's plan came off tonight then we'll be loaded. So minted I'll have a room full of shoes – fur lined boots was what he said.

IF it works, that is. On second thoughts, think I'll go and find the shoes.

I'm back at Gobelins and it's totally silent and there's no light in the window. If it had come off then surely ma and pa would be celebrating . But no, nothing, the boulevard's empty – no cops but also no Patron-Minette and no ma and pa.

I have a nasty, sick feeling in my stomach – I really think the fuzz have got 'em. Or maybe I worry too much. I probably feel giddy cos I'm hungry.

I've got the key round my neck so I let myself in. It's pitch fucking dark and quiet as the grave. The floorboards creak behind me as I go up the stairs and, even though I know I'm being thick, I'm scared. I walk along the corridor to our room and as I get to the door I think I hear someone step on the loose board.

"Mum? Dad? 'Zelma?"

No reply. I step into the room – there's definitely someone here. For a moment I fink that 'Parnasse has come to get me but there's no way he coulda got here first

"Is that you, Gavroche?"

It's probably not very bright to go into a pitch dark room when y'know there's a total random lurking inside, but I'm buggered if I'm gonna sit outside me own home for their convenience! Anyway, what do I care what happens to me?

I hear the boards creak again as I feel my way to where we've got some candles and matches stashed, keeping guessing at names as I do.

"M'sieur Marius?"

I hear another couple of steps then the sound of someone tripping up and landing flat out on the floor.

"Fuck! Ouch!"

I get the candle lit, take a step back and trip over something – no, someone. I drop the candle an' it goes out.

I scrabble about for the candle and try to get up and get it lit again as quick as possible. I'm really scared now, on the edge of pissing myself. Pull yerself together, girl!

Meanwhile the bloke on the floor is cursing and complaining. He's got a deep voice, one I don't recognise.

"Oh shit! Devil take this for a game of soldiers! What the hell are you doing creeping around in the dark anyway, missy?"

The bloody cheek! I've got the candle lit now and I round on him.

"What am I doin? What the bloody 'ell are you doin' more like! Skulkin' rahnd my room – though you was a bloody ghost! Nah tell me who the 'ell you are an' what the 'ell you're doin' or I'll scream an' call the pigs. Got it?"

"Save yourself the trouble, my dear – the 'pigs' are already here."

I look at the geezer properly and, to my horror, I recognise him.

Sitting in the middle of my floor rubbing his head, plain as day, is none other than Inspector Javert! Now the mere mention of Javert is enough to make most folk piss themselves round here – and I've just gone and shot my mouth off to him! Oh, and sat on him! I don't know whether to laugh or cry. You're for it now, 'Ponine!

But he don't do nothing. Just sits there with his arms wrapped round his knees looking at me.

I sit down and look at him. Nothing happens – it's well odd. Some people say old Javert is a bit touched in the head. "Brilliant," they say, "but not normal." Well, I'm of that view and tonight I'm startig' to think that he's finally lost his remaining marbles.

He looks at me a bit more then says, "What are you doing here?"

"I live 'ere."

"So you do – Eponine, isn't it?"

I nod. He's got a very strong southern accent that I've not noticed before. Southern accents normally make me think of the sun – dunno why. But there's nothing sunny 'bout Javert. Odd thing is though, there's nothing frightening neither. He just looks tired and he's still rubbing his head. I must have sat on it.

"Are you alright, M'sieur L'Inspecteur?"

He don't answer but all of a sudden he stands up and I can really see how tall he is. Tall, and built like a brick shithouse. Now I'm for it. But instead of grabbing my wrist or pulling my hair or any on the other painful way I've seen folks get arrested, he just takes my hand and says. "Come with me"

Ah, now I get it! Virtuous ad' untouchable you may seem, M'sieur Javert, but you're just like other men in the end. And y'know what? In a funny way I'm glad of it. Lord knows I've had worse and the thought of spending the night alone in this deserted hole isn't that great. I know how men like him live too – clean sheets, a warm fire and breakfast in the morning

We go downstairs and I decide to play along with the game so I press against him. He pushes me away and looks genuinely surprised.

"What the devil are you doing? Get off me, you tart!"

"But I thought – "

"Ah," he says, raising an eyebrow, "Ah, I see."

He laughs, silently in the back of his throat. It would be a nice laugh if he wasn't so blatently ripping the mick outta me.

"Well now, that will teach me to finish my sentences! Flattered as I am, ma Dulcinee, what I meant to say was, "Come with me to the Madelonettes" I think that's better all round. I get to stay free from fleas and venereal and you get a warm cell and regular meals."

"Madelonettes? But I 'avent don nuffink!"

"I'm not a man to take such things on trust. I'm not convinced you've committed any culpable act but, until I'm completely sure, I want you where I can find you"

He looks around, puts his fingers to his lips and whistles. All of a sudden two grey horses trot out of the night like ghosts, with a fiacre clattering behind 'em, making me jump. Javert put me in the cab, calls 'Madelonettes' to the driver and gets in himself. I still feel a bit faint so I stare out the window, I think about ma and pa – a bit – and M'sieur Marius, but mostly I think about a warm cell and regular meals.

#Brumaire is the second month of the revolutionary calender. 'Brume' means mist and 'brumal# means bad, wintry weather.


	3. Chapter 3

It is always interesting to watch peoples' reaction to my arrival at the Madelonnettes - nervous shuffling from the prisoners, canteen women jumping out of the way. Even the turnkey blenches slightly as I come striding down the corridor. They're all terrified of me here. On the one hand this is as it should be, a matter of healthy respect. On the other, it's vaguely pathetic. After all, I'm a middle rank, (late) middle-aged public servant who's not as spry as he once was. Lord, there'd be puddles on the floor if anyone really important ever showed up here!

I half wish the silly bints could have seen me this past week - would have put their minds at rest to see me looking like death. I've felt wretched and must have looked worse. I really don't know what brought it on: I strained something, somehow (now, children, aren't we glad I didn't have the funds to train as a medical, hein?) and before I knew it my scar was red and hot and I had a horse's fever. Of course, I've taken no time off for it but it's really been a case of showing up and being no bloody use to anyone. Is it not one of the great ironies of life that as age and experience refine out mental faculties they simultaneously bugger our physical ones?

And not that I can afford to walk around looking like Madame Shelley's monster, either. Inspector Javert of the First Class is not Ill! Perish the thought! One has a certain degree of professional image to uphold. Consequently, I have spent the week being not only feverish but furtive.  
Pontellier nearly caught me head down asleep upon my desk - that was a close one. I shudder to think what would happen if that boy caught me looking under the weather. He's a good lad, but also something of a mother's boy and can't quite understand why I, and everyone else in our section, is not the same. If Pontellier supposed me to be ill, he would inform Dr Fitzwilliam; Fitz, being a devoted husband and inveterate gossip, would inform Nana; Marianna, being incorrigibly nosy (my prerogative, girl! Mine!) would start writing little notes to Mere Moulin. All in all, seven kinds of Hell which I have no desire to experience!

Anyway, I feel much better today and so here I am! Spick and span and ready to begin my ward rounds.

"Now, Inspector," says the turnkey, "what can I do for you this fine morning?"

It is snowing outside today and for some reason I find Deneuve's comment rather amusing:

"Jondrette, Éponine, if you please. And I'd like somewhere more private than the part work workshop if possible."

"Monsieur DuMornay's office - second on the left. I'll have her brought over."

I sit myself down in DuMornay's office - two rickety wooden chair on one side of the desk (the neat desk of a man who never does any work) and an armchair with the stuffing poking out on the other. All 'warmed' up by the sort of mean little fire that it's hardly worth the bother of setting.  
I take my little notebook out of my pocket and go and stand by this fire, resting my elbows up on the mantle  
Now, I make a habit of visiting those I arrest - with flowers, bonbons, the works. And we all know that chickens have teeth! Actually, I'm more wont to visiting prisoners than many of my brothers, which is a shame. They don't seem to realise that itis _a very good way of getting what you want.  
_  
There are quite a few thing I want out of life at the moment and La Jondrette could be in a position to provide a goodly number of them. If we refer back to the list I made on the night of the Gorbeau affair things should become a little clearer.  
First off we have Babet, Bigranaille and friends. Or rather. We, the judiciary system, have Babet and Bigranaille, but many of their friends are absent. Which is a shame. I would so hate for them to miss the party .Éponine, if she proves willing, could be instrumental in my discovering and reclaiming such rare creatures as La Magnon, Claquesous, Mardisoir or Montparnasse, allhitherto _lost to society_.  
Then there is the mater of our escapologist victim. I have no doubt that the girl knows where to find him, and I would very, very much like to be in on the secret.  
Thirdly, we have our little cowardly lawyer friend, whose name, incidentally, was Pontmercy. Now, personally I'd like to find him so that I can chew his ear off for being a lily-livered, addle-pated nincompoop who nearly wasted an entire evening of my squadron's valuable time. However, I do have a rather more respectable _judicial _reason for wanting to find the boy. Our _avocaillon_ is, I believe, on friendly terms with one Sieur Armand Marcelin de Courfeyrac know, due to his republican sentiments, simply as Courfeyrac. (Surely it's more pretentious to take the 'de' out of your name than it is to add one in? Maybe I should give myself a 'de', if it's as common as all that. How about 'Monsieur Javert de Toulon'? or maybe 'Louis Javert des Madelonnettes'? Certainly that last is more respectable than being plain old Madeleine . . )  
Yes . . Now where was I? Not a bloody clue. Ah! Student revolutionary politics! Basically - if Pontmercy is involved, I want to milk him for information then arrest him and the rest of the traitors If he's not then he really should be made to understand what getting involved with a bad lot like M - Courfeyrac - without - a - 'de' means. Hopefully the girl will provide a means to the boy and, if I know girls of her class at all, the boy may well provide a means of getting to the girl.

Talk of the cat, here she is now, looking even more squalid and woebegone than she did when I arrested her

"Thank you Deneuve, you may leave us - Now! And shut the door."


End file.
